In spite of his preoccupation,
Stephen could not help noticing how very worn his brother looked.
"You look quite seedy, old boy," he said. "Will you have some brandy?"
Hilary shook his head.
"Now that you've got Thyme back," he said, "I'd better let you know my
news. I'm going abroad to-morrow. I don't know whether I shall come back
again to live with B."
Stephen gave a low whistle; then, pressing Hilary's arm, he said:
"Anything you decide, old man, I'll always back you in, but--"
"I'm going alone."
In his relief Stephen violated the laws of reticence.
"Thank Heaven for that! I was afraid you were beginning to lose your
head about that girl."
"I'm not quite fool enough," said Hilary, "to imagine that such a
liaison would be anything but misery in the long-run. If I took the
child I should have to stick to her; but I'm not proud of leaving her in
the lurch, Stevie."
The tone of his voice was so bitter that Stephen seized his hand.
"My dear old man, you're too kind. Why, she's no hold on you--not the
smallest in the world!"
"Except the hold of this devotion I've roused in her, God knows how, and
her destitution."
"You let these people haunt you," said Stephen. "It's quite a
mistake--it really is."
"I had forgotten to mention that I am not an iceberg," muttered Hilary.
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